


Simon says "Fuck it"

by dark_as_pitch



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angry Makeouts, First Kiss, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Seventh year, angry at the world, angry soft boys, basically simon is a bit roughed up, bit angsty but satisfying ending, fuck the mage, simon and baz are so gone for each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-19
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-10-24 09:23:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20703656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_as_pitch/pseuds/dark_as_pitch
Summary: The world is cruel. Simon loses his chill.or Simon gets roughed up during the summer and decides he doesn't want to *fight* Baz





	Simon says "Fuck it"

**Author's Note:**

> Everything belongs to the wonderful Rainbow Rowell.

I stomp up every step of Mummers House until I reach the top.

I don’t even summon the Sword of Mages, to knick myself on and get reintroduced to the room. My knuckles are so battered that I just half punch, half scrape the wall, and I’m in.

I throw my bag on the floor, slamming the door and leaning back on it heavily. I push my hood off to scrub through my short hair, close my eyes and try not to choke on air.

“What the devil happened to you?”

My eyes fly open and land on the figure standing in the bathroom doorway.

“I know you love being a hero to us all, Snow,” Baz sneers mockingly, “but I would have thought that even you would put your feet up on the first day back.” He steps closer, “Though I suppose then you’d have to endure a whole day of people _not _gushing over your apple-cheeked protagonism.”

This, right here, is testament to how bad this summer was. After staying in that hell hole of a Boys’ Home for three months, standing in our room being snipped at by Baz is so familiar and manageable that my only reaction is to smile. Everything smells of lavender and cedar and dusty books, I can feel my pulse in my temples.

I do realise, however, that I’m probably not quite the picture of serenity. Bruises and cuts all over my face, ripped up knuckles and ill fitted clothing. I imagine seeing myself through Baz’s eyes. I probably look on the outside exactly how he thinks I am on the inside. Rough. A street kid. Too chavvy to attend this school.

I feel my smile stretching my damaged skin, sharp with dead eyes.

“We’re not doing that this year.”

“Excuse me?” Baz asks, momentarily startled.

“You and me. Fighting. It’s bullshit.” I shrug, my bruised ribs protesting. “We’re not doing that anymore, I’m sick of it.”

“What-” Baz is looking at me like I’m an extra special idiot. “Snow. That’s not just something you can announce and expect it to happen.” His eyes look me over again. “Did you hit you head so many times you finally killed off your last brain cell?”

I snort. This is child’s play. This is old material, he sounds like we’re in fourth year again.

I can feel life seeping back into my body, crawling up my limbs, making my fingers tingle. This back and forth with Baz is the very essence of being home, it feels like my magic has finally resurfaced after months.

But, I remind myself, this isn’t what I want. _Baz_, yes. The fighting, absolutely not. I spent the last three months doing nothing but throwing punches and carving hate into boys just as desperate and angry as me, and it got me thinking.

_A dangerous venture for you, Snow. _

Baz is just as angry and just as desperate as me. We were both thrown into wars we shouldn’t have to deal with and I’m just, done. I have no patience left.

The Humdrum is still my problem, of course. Mainly because it’s bigger and scarier than the squabbles of Mages. And because I seem to be the only one who could hope to make a difference.

The whole civil war thing though? Absolutely not going to deal with that. I’ve spent so long being told I’m the Chosen One, as if that suddenly makes me some golden hero for everyone to follow. Well, fuck that. Fuck the adults.

Adults keep telling me that they’re there to protect me and care for me, and yet I’ve gone my entire life being hungry and vulnerable.

I push up off the door and walk over to Baz. Get right up in his face, too. Might as well go full out with this whole change of dynamics thing.

“We’re not fighting anymore. I don’t like it.” I stare up at him.

“Oh!” Baz scoffs incredulously, “Well, I suppose whatever your Highness wants, your Highness shall get.” He’s still looking at me like I’ve gone barking mad. _He _looks like he’s going a bit mad.

“Great,” I smile at him. His pupils are blown wide, framed by a stormy grey. I’ve never seen his eyes this up close before. There we go, this truce already has its benefits.

I push past him, and enter the bathroom to have a proper shower. (And nick his fancy shampoo. Because winding him up will always be fun, truce notwithstanding.)

***

Term has properly begun, lessons in full swing. My face has pretty much cleared up, with a rogue scar here or there. They’ll blend in nicely with the older ones.

Penny had quite a lot to say about the state of me when I arrived, but she eventually exhausted herself and realised that she had no more power than me when it came to controlling my summers (a fact she was _very _put out by).

I got a few pointed glances from the teachers, some alarmed but most resigned. Miss Possibelf could be heard at times huffing about sending children after monsters. I suppose it made most sense to her to believe I got marked up by some dark creature on my way back, rather than it being caused by the Mage forcing me into ‘care’ every summer.

He didn’t have anything to say about it. Mainly because he hasn’t set foot on school grounds yet. Perhaps seventh year will be a quiet one. _Ha_.

Baz’s reaction is by far my favourite.

He’s had time to work his head around my announcement as to how this year is going to play out. (I don’t think he was opposed to us being friends – or civil, I guess. He was just pouting because he wasn’t the one to make the decision.)

At the start he tried to ignore it, pass it off as temporary lapse in judgement on my part. He tried to act like usual, throwing petty insults my way. But we both soon found that it’s just not the same when the target takes it as banter.

It seems that any tendril left of my good mood has just locked on to him. I have a weird newfound patience for him. I find myself being amused by his quirks and his biting remarks, rather than upset.

I let myself look at him now.

I watch his long fingers running along parchment and turning pages. I follow the shift of the muscles in his shoulders as he stretches in the morning. I notice the light catch in his eyes in the afternoons, and the tensing of his thighs when he scores.

It’s hard to look away once you’ve started. Everything Baz does has precision and poise. I used to think it was a posh thing, like Agatha and her horse riding. That they teach their children to always look like they are completely in control. (But then, why is Agatha so lost? And why does Baz have that wild look in his eye when I catch him staring?)

I’ve become addicted to Baz’s unpredictability. Since I broke the cycle of our usual routine, it’s like he keeps slipping up, forgetting himself.

He watches me so openly, his gaze almost hungry.

We’ve always orbited each other. Clashing violently, desperately.

Always so hungry for something, _anything_, from the other. As long as they’re paying attention. As long as we’ve got them.

I think I finally dislodged something inside of him. I’ve knocked it free, and now it’s out and it’s dangerous.

_And, by Crowley, does it thrill me._

He keeps slipping up. Not keeping himself in check. His voice dips when he speaks to me. His eyes droop, pinning me to the spot. He leans too close, and smells too good.

I feel like a caged animal who’s almost broken the bolt. I just need one more push. One more, and I’m out.

***

I’m staring out our window and watching Baz kick around on the football pitch. Which is fine, I guess, because it’s a Saturday, but it’s also 5:30 in the morning.

I want to go out and join him. So I do.

The grass is still dewy, and the mist lends itself to the general timeless atmosphere. Like we’re removed from the rest of the school for the moment.

He’s obviously seen me, but shows no sign of it, continuing basic drills up and down the field.

I walk to the centre and he stops right in front of me. I kick the ball off to the side.

“Brilliant,” he says flatly. I shrug and watch the ball roll further away from us.

He’s barely panting, even after all that. I think it’s part of the whole dark creature package, the advanced stamina. Still, I want to put my hand on his chest, to feel the rise and fall. Or maybe around his throat.

His mouth is tense, lips twitching. I flick my eyes up. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Oh, I don’t sleep. I lie around in coffins and mutter evilly about taking you out.”

I smirk. “Didn’t take you for a romantic, Baz.”

He blusters and squints and tries to pass off the red high on his cheekbones as affects of the cold, I’m sure.

“Such confidence in yourself this year, Snow,” he sneers. “Watch you don’t topple over now your head’s so large.”

“I’m sure you’ll be there to catch me.”

His eyes are daggers now. He stalks ever closer. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Snow.” His voice is low and dangerous. It’s a threat and a temptation in one.

_I want him._

I feel wild with it. One more push.

“Baz.”

“Simon.” Perfectly enunciated. Mocking.

I crash into him. I shove my shoulder into his chest and tackle him to the ground.

We land with a thud, the breath knocked clean out of Baz.

“Fuck,” he grumbles. “What in Morgana was _that _for?”

He’s rubbing at his temples with his eyes closed. I lean over his face and cage him in.

He stills. I can feel the moisture of the grass sinking through the sleeves of my jumper.

Baz’s hands move to trace over my back, light as feathers. Then he looks me dead in the eye and tightly grips my hips, nails digging in.

“So you finally got there?” His voice is steady, but I can feel his heart pounding. “You know, I always hoped I’d get to push you off a very tall cliff. I just never considered it could be a mental one.”

I shake my head at him. We’re so close, our noses are just barely touching.

“I’ve got you,” I say. “_Baz_. I’ve finally got you where I want you.” Now _I’m _panting. “I want you.”

Baz looks like he’s going to eat me alive. So I beat him to it.

I kiss him.

I kiss him and kiss him and kiss him.

It’s violent and messy and desperate. Fitting, for boys like us.

This feels like every high and every low. I’m mad for it, lost in him. I kiss every bit of skin I can find. I pet his hair and call him darling.

Baz is stunning like this. (Baz is stunning.) He’s flushed and breathing hard. His hands are buried in my curls and he seems mesmerized by the ability to do so.

I’m practically incoherent with relief. Relief that I’m here, relief that I’ve survived long enough to reach this point.

Every kiss is a promise and an apology. We’ve both been hurt so many times and in every possible way.

It’s time to find out if we can be more than our hurt and our hate. Maybe someday we can afford to be lazy and relaxed. Maybe we could disappear for a while, just the two of us.

I look at him now. His defined cupid’s bow. The arch in his brow. The creases by his eyes.

Oh. He’s smiling. _Oh._

“You and me, yeah?”

He looks so calm. Damn the world for trying to keep us from this. I’d burn Rome to the ground for him.

“Yeah.” He leans up and kisses me so, so softly. “You and me, Simon.”

I smile and kiss him again. And again.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm gonna be honest, the idea for this fic was definitely more of a vibe than a plot.  
I'd written the first bit and then forgotten about it. Until I found it on my computer today and felt like finishing it.  
I hope it's not too terrible, and I hope it's as cathartic to read as it was to write.  
Thanks for reading. <3


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